Reluctant Repetition
by Sinister Tomato
Summary: The General used to love to rile up his short subordinate. The range of echoing rage knew no bounds. There were some things in history that were meant to be repeated. Oneshot. Generic. Introspect between a superior and his subordinate.


**Disclaimer**: Nah, I don't own full metal alchemist. Can't anyway. I'm not making a profit off this either.

**Warning**: Spoilers from…episode 27 or so. Not sure about chapter. But it's not blatantly obvious, so it's nothing to worry about.

**A/N**: A little change from all the romance and tragedy I'm so prone to typing up. This is generic, meaning no pairings. And don't worry, I didn't kill anyone this time. This is an introspect between a superior and his subordinate. One-shot. There's a reason for there being no names, by the way…

* * *

An old dog like him didn't believe in fate. To him, fate was just history before it happened.

The General used to love riling up that midget of a subordinate of his. A single remark about his height, or lack thereof, would immediately set him off on a temper tantrum. However, over time his temper tantrums became less vehement and comical. Many things changed that, both wonderful and horrid.

It seemed that his former subordinate grew out of the tantrum stage quite quickly, regardless of his juvenile age. Although he tried and succeeded in concealing his unacceptable youth from the rest of the brass, the General was much too wise to disregard the signs. Despite the obscenely young age, however, the General was impressed with the boy's drive, his range of knowledge, his sense of cautious ambition, and most importantly, his ability to plow through his obstacles one way or another.

The boy's choice of transmutation was impressive. A grand bonfire of epic proportions. It was what convinced the brass to give him his famed title. Needless to say, the boy was quite the whirlwind wherever he was sent, rumors and tall-tales of him spreading across the continent of Amestris in less than a year since he was first dispatched. "A dog of the people," civilians chanted from all corners of the continent. The General placed the boy under his command for his own good, because he needed to learn the ways of adults, especially of those in as such a ruthless environment as the military.

Class was in session and the boy caught on rather quickly. The first lesson was to control his temper. It was by no means an effortless task, but the boy had easily proven his persistence, and in an abrupt amount of time, had easily mastered the technique of concealing anger and displaying nothing but infinite patience on his features.

The second lesson was to teach the boy the power and influence of words. The art of fencing could be attributed with this. Instead of rapiers, however, words were the weapon, and it depended on the owner of those words to make them sharp, lethal. The General constantly verbally dueled with his young charge. He found that the lad had a surprisingly sharp tongue, one that could whip his political opponents with ease. It was blatantly apparent to the General that this lesson could be skipped, as the boy was a natural born verbal combatant with the use of his vocabulary.

The third lesson was to control the rest of the expressions on his face. The General was reluctant to proceed with this particular lesson because the innocence of the boy's oh-so-readable features was what the General was most fond of about him; the innocence, the purity, the spirit in the boy. To take that away, was one of the things the General regretted having to do the most.

As usual the boy caught on swiftly. However, he knew what was at stake and had hesitated. It was unnerving to watch those multitudes of emotions flit across those wide eyes. Shock, fear, anger, discontentment, indifference, and finally acceptance. The boy steeled himself and stubbornly assured the General with a cold, mirthless grin that he would succeed. It was at that moment, as the boy filed out with a bow, instant remorse filled mind and heart, both the General's and the boy's.

The very next day, familiar footfalls echoed into his office. The General looked up from his pristine sheets of crisp reports to find a familiar stranger standing stoically before him.

Succeed, the boy did. Those emotions that made him a boy were now blocked from plain view, and the only expression that could possibly be read was a smug smirk that mirrored the General's own. It was relatively alarming. In a way, the General could see himself in that boy's eyes, and in those eyes he could still see the pained reluctance of the acceptance the boy forced upon himself. The General attempted to ignore it, and commended his young subordinate for his agility, his refinement, and his ability to lock himself away. Although, he kept that last part to himself.

The boy was now quite well-rounded; a gunner, a swordsman, and an alchemist. In addition to those abilities, he was also a gifted debater. This gave him a whole new edge and advantage. The General had no doubt that the boy wouldn't waste those talents.

Class was over, and he graduated, in a sense. The prize was not a diploma, however; It was a letter that condemned him to war. The boy had seen many a bloodshed on the field, yes, but not to such a vast degree. He was shipped off to the battlefield a week after his last field mission. The General himself had seen more than enough massacres to last him ten lifetimes.

Approximately a year later, the boy was sent back with rest of the battalion. The boy didn't look exceedingly altered. Perhaps lankier, slimmer, hair mussed and tousled. The General would never forget those dark, empty orbs, so devoid of the stubborn, brash flame they used to hold. He did not attempt to comfort the boy as his footsteps reverberated past him, let alone even confront him; he left that in the hands of other people, people that were closer on a personal level, like that stubble-faced young man.

After a fair amount of time, the boy began appearing in his office again, the zeal in his eyes bright once again, but somehow different. There was a whole new purpose behind those piercing orbs. The General proceeded to tell him that because of his actions in the rebellion, he was being promoted, should he choose to have a formal rank. The boy only smirked in a knowing fashion and nodded, accepting his new rank and privileges. The General could read nothing on his face.

The boy was transferred to Central within two weeks.

Fate, the very article of the idea that he began to accept, decided to reunite them. Half a decade or so later, the boy reappeared in his office once again. He was transferred back to the East and into the old General's command again. The boy grew a considerable amount since the last time he'd seen him, in more ways than those of physical status. He could no longer make remarks about his height anymore, as he easily stood a few inches taller.

They spent most of their time together playing games of chess, the General winning most every time. However, once the boy began turning the gears in his overworked brain, he figured out the patterns of the moves and countered them every chance he could. By then, they began to stalemate on most of their games. The tactics hardly failed.

There was only one time the boy actually prevailed, and scraped a win. Even the General had to admit that he was very much in form that day, carefully yet deftly not making regrettable mistakes. He was, for once, several steps ahead of the General. The General, however, was not irked in the least bit. He was saddened, though, when the boy left again under orders to transfer back to Central on that same day. It was the least he could do to permit the boy to take a few subordinates.

It was almost two years since that day that he had truly seen the boy again.

The boy was back in the East for a few weeks. Under orders to inspect and monitor the conditions, he claimed. The General did not mind, as he was soon retiring anyhow. He was growing much too old, as much as he loathed admitting it, and his influence in the government was waning. He decided to collect his pension and retire while it was still possible to enjoy the rest of his life. Still, he hoped a capable soldier would replace him.

The General found it amusing to observe the hostile yet strangely companionable relationship between the boy and his subordinate. The subordinate was by no means tall at all. It amused him a great deal to watch the exchange of insults between the two. It reminded him of his and the boy's former vehement relationship. It amazed him how the two could exchange word for word the arguments he had with the boy. He was on the verge of having a heart attack from doubling over and wheezing in laughter.

Here, the General's recollection of years gone by ceased. His thoughts faded, and he turned to the matter at hand. It was almost depressing. He was renowned as a chess master prodigy; the best of his time. Yet, here he was, practically conceding defeat to a mere boy. But the boy really did become a brilliant tactician, both on and off the field. It was no shame to lose to him. The General, himself, would lose. Again. The prediction was imminent, and made itself prominent to his bones. Fate made itself known once again, but this time, the General decided to go with the flow, as opposed to resisting it.

Besides, the match was too intriguing to oppose.

The General and the boy were at it again, their chess match toiling as long as ever. The boy held him firmly in check with a bishop. As the General sipped his tea and annihilated the bishop with his white knight, he took the time to strike up a conversation. "I've been meaning to ask you this for quite some time."

Taking the silence as a gesture to go on, he resumed speaking. "Do you miss being a regular civilian alchemist, no rank whatsoever, and the time to travel and research freely?"

As the boy captured the white bishop with his black knight, he smiled ruefully as his eyebrows furrowed in deep-rooted misery, setting down the knight in it's new place. His guarded expression softened visibly, the carefully tucked edges sticking out. The necessity of inducing his point across caused him to lower his shield, and sit unguarded for the first time since they parted ways those many years ago. "Yes. There was just something appealing about the idea of research and travel, despite the tediousness of both."

"Is there anything else you miss?" The General repositioned his rook and made the black queen his prisoner. A flawless, but superfluous move. A throwaway.

"Yes," the boy replied with an air of slight longing, "I miss being a…true alchemist." At the look of confusion the General shot him, he elaborated as he picked up his bishop. "There is a saying among alchemists, a saying that few follow now. 'Alchemists work for the good of all.' I miss working for the common people. There was just some kind of personal satisfaction in knowing I helped someone with my alchemy…In that aspect, I envy _him_." He gestured to his currently raging subordinate beyond the large pane of glass.

No more was exchanged. Words were unnecessary at the moment. Especially when the General did not intend to let the boy - no, _man_ - win this time. As old as the man before him dissembled to be, the General would always see past it all. Underneath all that _'bullshit', _as the man's subordinate took pleasure in calling it from time to time, there was an actual human being. In the General's eyes' however, the man would always be the same boy with the mad, ambitious glint in his eyes, as vivid and intense as the flames he controlled with deadly accuracy. It was a better memory than the hardened man he transformed the boy into.

The General toyed with and taught Colonel Roy Mustang the rules of the dangerous political game he was playing, just as the Colonel himself toyed with and taught Major Edward Elric the rules of the so-called 'game' as well. It was a game of survival.

There was only one difference. The General had not sheltered the Colonel, therefore, he let the boy grow to become an adult far too rapidly. The Colonel, apparently, was not going to make that same error. He sheltered the Major when he could, threw him in front of harm's way when necessary, and lifted the burdens when it visibly weighed down the small young man. He would not let the Major grow up more than was necessary, for the Major already lost enough of his childhood. He still had all of adulthood to grow. Why not let him enjoy what was left?

The Colonel ascertained _this_ the hard way.

"Checkmate."

The General blinked several times at the board before him. The castling he did seven moves previously had been a mistake. The white rook and corner pawns sealed the king in, leaving the Colonel's remaining rook to block off all the exits. Checkmate, indeed.

The General chuckled deep into his throat and threw up his arms, signaling his defeat with wild gesticulations. As the Colonel knocked down the white king with a flick of his finger and the flash of a long-forgotten grin, the General waved him out, following closely at his heels. The lobby doors barely shut behind them as the Colonel decided to curl the corners of his lips into his trademark, mischievous smirk.

"Fullmetal, it seems you are in need of a stepstool for your fist to reach Havoc's face."

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO ULTRA MINISCULE THAT HE COULD BE SQUASHED FLAT BY A CIGARETTE BUTT?"

The General chuckled merrily, his eyes curved up in cheerful arcs. Despite what many people said about learning from other people's past errors, some things in history were just inevitably destined to be repeated.

After all, repetition was not _always_ a negative entity.

* * *

…and that's the reason.

A/N: Don't take this story seriously, please. I just made it up. Review, as it's nice to know what people think. Constructive criticism would be appreciated, as usual.

Don't rag on me about Mustang's age, okay? I didn't put a specific number so it's up in the air. I know he's as old as he says he is, if he ever said it at all. I just made it up to fit my point in the story. According to guidebooks, he's 29 at the beginning and 30 towards the middle. 32, movie timeline-wise.

Mustang is actually kind of short…He's not a towering six feet and he's not as short as Breda or Fury, but he could possibly be the shortest colonel if not one of them. So, inspired by a game of chess and a story by mikkeneko, I came up with this. This is kind of like _"the beginnings of the midget legacy"._

I like that old General guy. He's a chess master and really calm when other people freak out and he's just plain funny. He has no name as far as I know, and I couldn't bring myself to make one up.

See? I killed no one this time.


End file.
